


Reach the Border

by killaidanturner



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, M/M, and Steve - Freeform, he loves his arm ok, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:19:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6659677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killaidanturner/pseuds/killaidanturner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>rachel said there aren't enough fics where bucky loves his arm so this was my attempt</p>
    </blockquote>





	Reach the Border

**Author's Note:**

  * For [baggvinshield](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baggvinshield/gifts).



> rachel said there aren't enough fics where bucky loves his arm so this was my attempt

If Bucky Barnes was given a second chance to live he sure as hell didn’t think that he deserved it. 

 

* * *

He hated being alone, hated the way his thoughts seemed to work against him. How they wanted him to hate himself, wanted him to hate what he’s become, hate the monster he turned into.

 

He looks down at his arm, at the shining metal gleaming even in the dark of the room. He looks at the way the fingers move, how the fist clenches and thinks that it was made for killing, that it was made to pull the last breath from lungs.

 

It wasn’t just the arm of a killer, of a brainwashed soldier. It wasn’t just made for killing. It was also made for softer, gentler things. Like the way that Steve’s fingers would lightly touch the ridges of metal, how he would count the plates at night when it was just them and he was restless from sleep. 

 

Steve was the first person to look at him for who he used to be, the first person to not look at him as a machine. 

 

* * *

“This isn’t about deserving Bucky.” Steve stands with his back straight, all stars and stripes, star spangled and full of hope. 

 

“It is. I don’t deserve any of this.” His brain crosses wires, miscommunicates the data. Years and years of being turned off and turned back on again like a killing machine designed specifically for Hydra has taken it’s toll on him. 

 

“You didn’t deserve what happened to you, that’s what you didn’t deserve.” 

 

When Steve talks he feels his heartbeat in his chest, feels the way his skin pricks and remembers what it’s like to be human. Remembers what it was like to stand on Steve’s front door step filled with want and adoration. 

 

He doesn’t argue this time, doesn’t fight with Steve because he wants. He wants more than he ever thought he would. He wants to be that Bucky again, the one that Steve remembers. He wants late nights with Steve and his sketch pad, he wants the conversations in the dark about things that they’re too afraid to say in the light. He wants thunderstorms and rain soaked hair and when Steve tells him that he  _ deserves _ he lets himself dream.

 

* * *

“Sometimes I feel like I am.”

 

“Feel like what?” 

 

“A machine.” 

 

Circuit boards and a heart that beat livewires and codes instead of pumping blood. When he was with Steve he felt like it could be different, that the code in him could be broken, rewritten and replaced with something new, something kinder. 

 

* * *

It’s quiet one afternoon, just the two of them. They’re both exhausted, worn down from constantly running, constantly fighting for a life that they want, that they need. 

 

“Do you remember when we had to read Frankenstein one year in Miss O'Connor's class? She asked all of us what we thought of the story at the end and you stood up and gave this big speech about sympathizing with the monster, you rubbed your hands on your thighs before you talked because your hands were sweaty. A lot of the students didn’t agree with you but you shot down all of their points anyways, you defended that story and she ended up giving you best grade in the class that semester.” Bucky leans against the wall, his eyes downcast as he tells the story. 

 

“Yeah, I remember that.” Steve’s voice is quiet, knowing all too well where this is coming from.

 

“I think about that a lot. It came to me one day when you were talking to,” Bucky takes a breath, not knowing what to call him. _ Friend?  _ He wants to say Steve was Tony’s friend but he feels like that word isn’t fitting enough. It’s not the same way Steve and him used to be friends. He realizes he can’t bring himself to say his name either, so he works his way around it. “-the one in the suits, you were defending me to him and I thought of that, you standing there with your shaking knees and how different you are now with your head held high, but still defending a monster.”

 

“You aren’t a monster Buck,” 

 

“No, I suppose I’m not.” 

 

It’s the argument all over again, it’s Steve’s need to do what is right and all Bucky can think to do is touch the cold metal of his arm and think, “ _ no, just a machine.” _

 

* * *

Someone asks about Brooklyn and it’s like biting the head off of a snake. The ashes of his past melt on his tongue and he’s all pleated pants and bruised knuckles, the way he would always be protecting Steve. 

 

He looks down at Steve’s knuckles now, worn and dirty, bruising the way his used to. He thinks that their hands aren’t so different, how they’ve always been used to protect. 

 

* * *

That’s the thing, Bucky realizes, there is no safety in numbers, not in a war that still feels like the two of them against the rest of the world. Not when sandstorms can still reach him on skyscrapers and destruction bites away at their ankles but Steve never once loses hope. 

 

* * *

There’s always flashing lights in the rear view mirror, always sirens blazing after them. You can’t live a life on the run, mile markers and no rest stops. Steve tries, tries, tries, tears away at the prison wire surrounding Bucky’s heart, comes away with bleeding raw hands and if the moon is blood red and looking down at them then Bucky thinks all of it is rather fitting, that even the sky bleeds for them. 

 

* * *

Home. 

 

Home is over a thousand miles and whole lifetime away. Home was newspapers in Steve’s shoes, it was Steve’s mother singing Gaelic in the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. It was walking home after school, so close that their arms pressed together. 

 

Steve kisses his knuckles, lets his chapped lips touch the cool metal and Bucky lets himself dream.

 

* * *

Maybe it’s a tangible thing again, the concept of it, home. Steve made it real again, even through the gunfire and smoke, through the car chases and fists connecting against bone. 

 

It’s still a lifetime away and Bucky thinks that it’s something worth waiting for. Bucky’s hands shake at the thought and for the first time he really believe that his hands were made for different things and maybe one day he will have the epilogue he’s looking for. 

 


End file.
